


How to Become an Islander in Six Easy Steps

by DesireeArmfeldt



Series: Islanders [2]
Category: Wilby Wonderful (2004)
Genre: Derogatory Language, Friendship, Gen, Gossip, Homophobic Language, Identity, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, POV Second Person, Parent-Child Relationship, Post-Canon, Small Towns, Teen Sex (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-01 09:26:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15140093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: Emily comes to Wilby and learns to love it.





	How to Become an Islander in Six Easy Steps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feroxargentea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feroxargentea/gifts).



> This is a long-delayed sequel to my Sandra fic, How To Leave Wilby in 5 Easy Steps. Finally, an impetus to finish it!

1.

You’re ten years old and your mommy has a new boyfriend.  His name is Andy, and he thinks it’s really funny that he and your mommy are Andy and Sandy.  Except Mommy hates it when people call her Sandy.  Her name is Sandra.  You told Andy that, but he just laughed, and your mom told you not to be rude to her friends.  Even though Andy was rude to her first.

You call him Raggedy Andy, but only behind his back.  That makes Mommy laugh, but she says she’ll smack your ass if you ever say it to his face, but she wouldn’t, really.  She just means don’t do it or she’ll get mad.

At least she hasn’t told you to call him Daddy.  You wouldn’t do that, even if she did say so.

You haven’t seen your real Daddy since you were six.  When you and Mom left Halifax, Daddy didn’t come with you.  You didn’t understand why, then, but now you know that it was because he didn’t want to be Mommy’s boyfriend or your Daddy any more.  That’s what happened last year, in Fredricton, with Mark.  He was supposed to be your new Daddy, but he and Mommy had a big fight and he took back all his things out of the apartment and then you and Mommy moved to Saint John.

Andy couldn’t be your father, anyway, and neither could Mark, because a father is the man who has sex with a woman to make the baby.  You learned that in school, except you already knew that because you read it in a book from the library ages ago.  Mom lets you take out whatever books you want.  Maybe your real Daddy wasn’t really your father either, then.  You asked your mother, but she wouldn’t tell you.  She said that it didn’t matter, the important thing is that you and Mommy have each other and will always take care of each other.

But she keeps bringing home Andys anyway. 

 

2.

You just turned fifteen and apparently you’re going to be moving again.  That’s not much of a surprise.  You and Mom have only been living in Amherst for eight months, but she still doesn’t have a real job, just part-time waitressing.  And the boyfriends here are. . .not even boyfriends.  Just guys who take your mom on a couple of dates, bang her a couple of times, and disappear. 

“God, the men around here?” she says sometimes, tossing her hair back as she lights a cigarette, like maybe somebody besides you might be watching.  “Only good for one thing, my dear, and even that gets old pretty quickly.  One-trick ponies, all of them.  Well, maybe one and a half.  And then getting rid of them is almost as tiresome as having them around.”  Like being the town slut is an accomplishment to be proud of.  Like she expects you to be taking notes so you can learn how to do it yourself.

Is it weird to think that way about your own mom?  Is it weird to know so much about your mom’s sex life?  Jenny and Claire would definitely think so, if you told them, but you don’t talk about your mom to your friends, and definitely not to anyone else.  Not because people would laugh or look down on you—they already do that because you’re new and poor and don’t have a father and raise your hand too much in class.  But you don’t want them looking down on your mom, too, like they know anything about anything, like they have a right. 

Besides, when you come right down to it, even your friends at school?  They’re just people you’ll know for a year, maybe a couple of years if you’re lucky, which it looks like you’re not going to be, this time.  Your mom’s the only real friend you’ve got.

When Jenny’s parents take her skiing for the weekend to celebrate her birthday, and she invites Claire but not you; or when Keith Frobisher and his arsehole buddies drive alongside you when you’re jogging and make fun of your flat chest; or when you end up sitting alone at lunch for a whole week in a row—whenever you come home mad and miserable, your mom makes you a cup of cocoa and gets you to tell her the whole stupid thing.  Then she puts her arm around your shoulders and plays with your hair and says, “Listen, let’s have a night out on the town, just the two of us girls together.  What do you say to fish and chips and a movie?”

“Don’t you have a date tonight, Mom?”

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s off.  Anyway, you know there’s no one I’d rather spend time with than my beautiful baby girl.”  The thing about your mom is, you’re pretty sure that last part isn’t even a lie.

Sometimes you worry that you’re the only friend she’s got, too.

And now it’s going to be another move, another brand-new start.  Another school for you where you’ll be the new kid that nobody knows or needs, except people who are tired of their friends or never had any to begin with.  Another new man for Mom to pin her hopes on, if she’s lucky.  (Or unlucky.  You can’t quite decide which.)

Not a surprise.  The surprise is, Mom says you’re moving to Wilby.

It’s where she grew up, a little nowhere island off the South coast.  You’ve never been there.  You’ve never thought of Wilby as a real place that you could actually go to.  It’s always been like some kind of fairytale kingdom that only existed in Mom’s stories.  When you were little, Wilby was a terrible place where everyone was mean and life was boring and miserable.  Even when one of her boyfriends turned out to have a crazy wife who showed up at your house one night with a kitchen knife, screaming her head off, after it was over and the police were gone, your mother said, “Well, it could be worse, we could be back in Wilby.” 

You don’t remember when the stories changed and Wilby became some kind of island paradise. The quaint little town where life is peaceful and simple and you leave your door unlocked at night and everybody knows your name.  But lately, when Mom’s had a hard day, or when the kids at schools are arseholes, the cheering-up stories are all about when she was a kid in Wilby.  Swimming in the ocean and having contests to see who could stay in the longest when everyone’s lips were turning blue.  Her first kiss under the bleachers with Jack Schroeder.  Half the town piling onto the ferry to watch Buddy French lead the hockey team to victory in the last game of the season.  Stowing away on the ferry with Deena and Irene to go see _The Godfather_ in a mainland cinema. Fishing boats and Victoria Day fireworks and French fries at Iggy’s.

Now that you’re actually going there, Mom’s even more happy and hopeful and shiny-eyed about the damn place.

“You’ll see, you’ll love it there,” she promises, just like she always does whenever you’re getting ready to move to a new town.  “Everything will be different.  We’ll make a fresh start.”

“Just wait ‘till we’re home,” she says, like she’s offering you the keys to heaven.  Which maybe she is, because _home_ is a word Mom doesn’t use much.  Not since you were little. 

You’re pretty sure Wilby isn’t going to turn out to be heaven—although the flip side is that it probably isn’t hell, either.  It’s just going to be some stupid little town.

You don’t really believe it’s going to be _home_ , either.

Still, you can’t help wondering what it would be like to have one.

  

3.

You’re sixteen and your heart should be broken, but mostly you’re just a little bit hurt and a lot disgusted.  Taylor’s an arsehole, but you’re an idiot, because you kind of always knew that he was more interested in screwing you than in _you_ , you just pretended not to know it.  You set yourself up to get hurt, just like your mom’s been doing for as long as you can remember.  Duck was right: you’re her daughter, all right.

In her own messed-up way, Mom was trying to warn you.

“I just wanted you to be happy,” she says.  And, “I just wanted you to be safe.” 

And okay, yes, fine, you do get that, and if you told Mackenzie about the whole horrible night (which you won’t in a million years), she’d tell you how lucky you are to have a mom who gives you condoms instead of lectures and curfews and punishments.

But then your mother says (turning away to wipe down the grill, softly enough that you’re not sure she really meant you to hear, except that if she didn’t want you to hear, why say it?), “The last thing I want is for you to turn out like me.”

The only thing you can think of to say to that is _Are you sorry you had me?_ , so you just go to the fridge to get out the eggs instead.  Yesterday’s inaugural attempt at serving hot breakfast was. . .not a disaster, is about the best that can be said for it.  Today you’re both determined to make it work better.

A couple of days later, Duck asks you to help him stack some lumber into the back of his pickup, so you do, because he seems like a cool guy and you owe him a lot more than that.

“Your mom loves you,” he says sounding like it’s the middle of a conversation even though neither of you has said basically anything for the last five minutes.

“I know,” you tell him.  Because you’ve never honestly doubted that she loves you.  Even if you probably were an accident.  “I just wish she’d make up her mind whether she wants me to be just like her, or nothing like her.”

“Probably both.”  He balances the last two-by-four and gives the stack a little wiggle to make sure everything settles.  “Just like she wants for her, right?”

Nobody’s ever talked to you about your mother the way Duck does.  Like he understands her.  Like she’s a real person, and so are you.

A few days later, your mother says she’s thinking of inviting Dan Jarvis over for dinner (“Us freaks have got to stick together”).  You suggest that she should invite Duck, too. 

Of course she asks why.  You haven’t told her about Duck rescuing you at the Wildwood, or about him watching Dan’s door like there was something really important inside there, but you somehow forgot your mom can smell gossip a mile away.

So you just say Duck seems like a nice guy and you think he knows Dan, and she immediately asks, “Was he at the Watch, too?  Oh, that would. . .oh.  Yes.  Of course.  Stupid.” 

Then she sits you down and demands, “Okay, what do you know?  Spill.”

Which is how you end up spending the rest of the summer helping your mother play matchmaker for a couple of middle-aged gay guys.  Or maybe she’s the one helping you.

It’s weird: Duck and Dan don’t touch each other much; they don’t even hold hands, at least not in front of you.  And they’re both really low-key people, so at first you wonder if you were wrong about them being into each other.

“God, don’t they just give you diabetes?” your mom murmurs in your ear one night, slipping her arm around your shoulders as she looks over into the kitchen where Dan and Duck are standing by the sink. 

They’re not doing anything interesting: Dan’s washing dishes with his sleeves carefully rolled up; Duck’s leaning against the wall lighting a cigarette.  But then you notice that Duck’s watching Dan with the kind of soft, fond smile your mom’s always giving you.  Dan catches him looking, and Duck’s smile gets broader, and Dan smiles back and ducks his head like he’s embarrassed.  Duck reaches over and casually flips back the hair that’s flopped down into Dan’s eyes, and your throat gets all tight even though you’re smiling, because suddenly you understand exactly what your mom’s talking about.

“Someday, Sweetheart,” she says, giving you a squeeze, “That’s going to be you.” 

Duck blows a smoke ring.  Dan mutters something you can’t quite hear, which draws a surprised snort of laughter from Duck.  They both turn to look at you and your mom, Dan obviously embarrassed, Duck mostly just looking amused.  Your mom wiggles her fingers at them with a mischievous grin: _carry on, fellas, don’t mind us._   Duck looks up at Dan, who blushes bright red, sticks out his chin like a little kid, and leans down to kiss him.

“What if it never happens?” you whisper.  Then you feel bad, because your mom’s had a zillion boyfriends, but you can’t remember if she ever looked like that with one of them.  Maybe when you were little.  Maybe before you were born. 

The smile she gives you is kind of sad, but it’s her real one.

“You’ll still be okay,” she says.  She even sounds like she mostly believes it.

 

4.

You’re still sixteen, and your best friend is a backstabbing idiot. Mackenzie always acted like she didn’t think much of Taylor when you were going out with him, but apparently she was just waiting for you to break up so she could make a play for him herself.  When they start dating in October, you warn her about what he tried to do to you.

“You went to a motel with him, what did you think was going to happen?” she asks, rolling her eyes. 

You can’t even really be mad at her for that; she has a point.  But you also can’t hang around with her when she’s with Taylor, and she’s decided she doesn’t want a chaperone anyway, so you’re not friends any more.  Which is fine with you—it’s not like you liked her so damn much in the first place.  Except it’s not fine to eat lunch by yourself again and have no one to hang out with after school or pretend to do homework with or check out boys with.  It’s not fine to be back to being that weird mainlander girl, even though you’ve been here a whole school year and everyone knows you by now.  It’s not fine, and it’s not your fault, and it’s not fair.

“She’ll be back, you know,” says your mother, after her attempts to jolly you out of your moping have failed.  “You’re friends, like it or not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask.  It’s a pretty weird thing to say, especially for Mom.  Usually when you have a fight with a friend, her advice is more like, _If she can’t be bothered to see what a good friend you are, she’s not worth your time.  Plenty of other fish in the sea, Honey._

She gets that look that means she regrets opening her mouth and is going to brush the whole thing off with a joke, but then she doesn’t.

“Islanders don’t trade their friends in,” she says with this weird expression, bitter and fond all mixed together.  “They can’t afford to.” 

You remember some of her childhood-on-Wilby stories about her and Deena and Irene, and suddenly you almost think you understand why Irene comes in for coffee every day, and why Mom puts up with all the horrible stuff she says.  Not so many fish in this little pond.

Then Mom gets all flustered and extra-cheerful in that way she does when she’s trying to pretend she isn’t upset, or embarrassed, or feeling guilty.  She starts talking fast and brightly, about how everything will be all right, you and Mackenzie will patch it up, and anyway, there are lots of other girls at school and it’s only another year until you’ll be off to college.

“And if worst comes to worst, you’ve always got your old mom,” she says with that big, brittle smile that hasn’t fooled you since you were twelve.

 _Why did you bring us to this stupid place?_ you want to yell at her, but you don’t because you’re still afraid she’s going to wake up some morning and decide it’s time to move somewhere else.

 

                        *                                  *                                  *

 

You do ask Duck, while you’re helping him put up new shingles on the Martins’ house after the first big storm of November ripped off a bunch of the old ones.

“You’d have to ask her,” he says around the nails he's holding in the corner of his mouth.  “But you know, your mom always used to say there are two kinds of islanders: the ones who never leave, and the ones who leave and never come back.”

“What kind of islander does that make her, then?”

Duck lays down another shingle: _tap, tap, tap._  

“Well. . .someone once told me there are two kinds of people: the ones who divide people up into two groups, and the ones who don’t.”

That makes you laugh and fake-punch his shoulder.  He gives you that soft grin of his, his hands still busy with hammer and nails.

“But you don’t even think the whole mainlander/islander thing matters.  Right?” you ask.

“I think it matters to the people it matters to.”

“Which is, like, everybody on the island.”

“Lot of them, yeah,” he allows.  “Doesn’t make it real.”

“It’s real if you have to live with it,” you point out.  But then you feel bad, because Duck lets his hammer dangle loosely from his finger while he stares off down the street with a broody expression, and you know he’s thinking about Dan and that awful night and how islanders treat their freaks. 

“Sorry,” you say, but he shrugs and shakes his head.

“People are people.  You have to live with them the way they are.  You don’t have to make yourself crazy over it, though.”

“I just want to have friends.  A boyfriend.  People who like me.”  You’re starting to sound whiny again, but Duck doesn’t call you on it. 

“Worth waiting for.”  He lays down another row of nails.  “Worth working for, too."

“But what am I supposed to do when everyone’s already friends from first grade?” 

He nods thoughtfully, like that’s a puzzle, all right.

“Make friends with somebody who’s looking to expand their horizons?” he suggests. 

“I tried that.  She’s off making a fool of herself with my arsehole of an ex-boyfriend.”

“You worried something’s going to happen to her?”  Duck still sounds all low-key and casual like he usually does, but he’s looking at you intently.  You remember him shoving Taylor away from the motel door, the only time you’ve ever heard Duck raise his voice.  Suddenly, all the worries you’d convinced yourself were silly don’t seem so dumb any more.

“She knows what he’s like,” you explain.  “I mean, she really knows, I told her.  Um, about the motel.  But I guess she knows what she wants.” 

“Yeah?  What’s that?”

“To have sex.  Which is what he wants, too, so. . .so maybe it’ll be fine?”  You don’t mean to make it a question, but that’s how it comes out.

“Yeah.  Maybe,” he says, but he obviously isn’t happy about it.  He rubs the back of his neck. “Look, sex isn’t the problem, right?  Sex is. . .just sex.  It can be good or bad or. . .whatever.”

You nod.  “I don’t care what she does, I just. . .”

“You don’t want her to get hurt.”

You nod again.  He nods, too.

“Thing is. . .sometimes you just have to let people make their own mistakes.  And then, sometimes, someone needs you to help them, even if they maybe don’t know it, or can’t ask for it.”  His mouth twitches in a little grimace, the way he looked outside the motel, letting Dan drive away.  “You try to help, doesn’t always work.  But you don’t try, and then something happens. . .”  He shakes his head.  “You don’t want to be stuck with that kind of regret.”

You believe him, but. . .  “What am I supposed to do?  Tie her up in a closet to keep her from going out with him?”

“Maybe let her know she’s got a friend she can count on.  Even if you don’t go back to first grade.”

 

                        *                                  *                                  *

 

You’re clearing away Deena’s lunch plate and refilling her coffee when Mackenzie and Taylor walk past the window of Iggy’s with their arms around each other, trailing plumes of cigarette smoke that blend with the wisps of fog.  Parked in her usual booth pretending to be a paying customer even though she only ever gets a single coffee and stays for hours, Irene sees them too, and of course, she has to let the whole shop know.

“That girl’s asking for trouble.  That kind of boy only wants one thing.  Too damn good-looking to be let loose.”

You know for a fact that Irene knows Taylor used to be your boyfriend; she knew his name before your mom did.  You don’t for one second believe that she’s forgotten.

“The gorgeous ones are always trouble,” Deena jokes, not even looking out the window.  She smiles up at you, but then her expression changes to concern.  You duck your head aside too late; she’s seen that you’re upset, even if she doesn’t know exactly why.

“You wait and see,” Irene goes on with her usual matter-of-fact nastiness.  “She’ll be knocked up before Christmas.  Or if not her, some other girl.”

“You don’t know that, Irene,” Deena remonstrates.

“Oh, I know, and so do you.  So should little Miss Fisher, if she had the brains God gave lettuce.  What does she think is going to happen to her, running around with a boy like that?  Being the Mayor's daughter wasn't exciting enough for her, she's decided to be the town slut.”

“Oh, I think there’s still competition for that title,” says Mom, coming out from behind the counter and marching right up to Irene.  She’s got this big smile that doesn’t even pretend to be one little bit friendly.  It looks more like she’s about to bite Irene.  “And I’ve got a lot more practice than she does.”

“And you know exactly what will happen to that girl if she doesn’t show some sense,” Irene snaps.

That stops your mother like a slap in the face.  Because, of course, they don’t actually care about Mackenzie (who, to be fair, they don’t actually know).  This is about your mom and her sex life, past and present, because everything’s always about that.  The only way Wilby is different from anywhere else you’ve lived is that here, people like Irene can insult your mom about things she did when she was your age, as well as things she did last week.

It used to make you want to disappear, your mom’s humiliation spilling over onto you.  Now, you just wish you knew how to defend her.  Nobody likes Irene, so why does everybody listen to her?  How do you stop someone like that?

It’s Deena who actually speaks up.  “Irene, for God’s sake, do you always have to—?”

“It’s the truth,” Irene says, so confident and self-righteous you’d like to hit her.

Your mom plants her hands on her hips, shaken but determined.  “You know, when I came back here, I thought hey, it’s been 25 years, it’s the goddamned 21st century, surely even in good old Wilby, things will have changed a little.  Maybe my daughter and her friends won’t have to put up with the exact same bullshit we grew up with.”

“Well, you certainly haven’t changed one bit,” Irene sneers.  “You never did care to live in the real world with the rest of us.”

“Irene,” your mother says.  “You’ve always been my friend, and so I put up with your crap, because I owe you that much.  But my customers don’t owe you anything, and my daughter definitely doesn’t.  So you know what?  You’re welcome here, as long as you keep your hole shut.  You want to spread poison, you can do it somewhere else.”

It’s Irene’s turn to stare like she’s been slapped.  Part of you wants to jump up and down and cheer, _Go Mom!_   Part of you wants to hug her and tell her that you love her, because you can see that she’s sad as much as angry right now.  But, of course, you don’t do either; you just stand there silently watching her and Irene stare each other down. 

“I never said one word about you."  Irene's voice is low and angry, but she’s lost her confident expression and looks up at your mother almost like she’s pleading.

Staring her right in the eyes, your mom says quietly, “I know.”

Irene gets up, pushes past her, and stalks out.  The screen door bangs behind her. 

After a long moment of silence, Deena asks, “Did you have to do that?”

“Yeah.  I did.”  Mom sighs, pulls out her cigarettes, but then remembers that she doesn’t let people smoke in Iggy’s and puts them back in her pocket.

“I don’t know how she got to be such a bitch,” says Deena.

Mom shrugs.  “Same as the rest of us, I guess.”

“You know she’ll be back.”

“I hope so,” says your mother; she sounds like she actually means it.  Then she turns to you.  “Sweetheart, is your friend in trouble?”

Normally, she would be the last person you’d talk to about something like this.  Not even because of who she is, but because nobody tells their parents about stuff their friends are doing behind _their_ parents’ backs.  Which she should understand; obviously, she remembers what it's like to be a teenager, and you bet she never told _her_ parents what she was up to.  In fact, it sounds like she had _Irene_ keeping her secrets when she was your age.

But you’ve always promised yourself you wouldn’t do all the dumb stuff your mom did to end up the way she is.

“I don’t know." you tell her.  "I mean, not now.  Not yet.  Maybe not ever.  I just. . .”

“You’re worried about her,” Mom says, and Deena nods sympathetically.

“Yeah.”

Surprisingly, Mom doesn’t pepper you with questions.  Maybe she does get it after all.  Instead, she says, “Well, she’s welcome to come over to our house any time, okay?  Any time at all.  And if she needs. . .or if you need. . .you know, anything—”

“Mom, I’m not going to—”

“I’m just saying.  You come to me,” she says in her serious-business voice, the one she hardly ever uses.  Deena’s nodding along earnestly.

“She’s not going to talk to some adult about, like, anything,” you explain, as though it isn’t obvious.  “She probably won’t even talk to me.  She’s mad at me.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Deena says.  “You’re her friend, right?

“Yeah,” you say.  “I am.”

“Well, there you go,” she says, smiling as she pats your shoulder, as though that solves everything.

 

                        *                                  *                                  *

 

You catch Mackenzie on the way out of school on Monday.

“Hey, um.  Do you have a minute?”

“What do you want?”  She scowls at you, but she sounds more surprised than mad.

“I just. . .I have something to tell you.”

“What?” she asks grudgingly.

You take a deep breath and launch into the speech you’ve been mentally rehearsing.  “I’m not jealous of you and Taylor, okay?  He’s an arsehole, but if you like him, that’s your business.  I’m not trying to tell you what to do.  Just. . .it was my choice to go to that stupid motel with him, and. . .and I was still really glad somebody showed up to help me when. . .”  Your voice wobbles.  Mackenzie’s looking at you like you’re a crazy person; you can’t tell whether she’s mad or disgusted or just impatient.  “Anyway, I just wanted you to know that if you end up needing, you know, help with whatever, you can call me.  Or if you needed an adult, my mom would help.  She wouldn’t get you in trouble or anything.”

“You told your mom my business?”  Now she’s definitely mad.

“No!  I told her about _me_ and Taylor.  Well, some of it.  And it’s not like it’s a secret that you’re, um, hanging around with Taylor.  The whole town knows it.”  Damn, you didn’t mean to say it that way; you sound just like Irene, and Mackenzie has every reason to get nasty right back at you, which, of course, she does. 

“Well, I don’t care what the whole town thinks, and I certainly don’t need advice from you.  Not everybody is scared of sex, you know.”

You swallow hard and say, as calmly as you can, “I know.  Do whatever you want, it’s fine, and it’s also none of my business.  Just, you can call me.  Or my mom.  Or Deena Nelson, or Duck McDonald or Dan Jarvis.  I trust them.  I think you could trust them.  If you needed to.  And. . .”  You grab her hand—she’s too startled to resist—and press the condoms into it.  The ones your mom gave you.  Your face feels hot and tight, like a sunburn.  “Anyway.  That’s all I wanted to say.”

You turn your back on her incredulous scowl and walk away without even crying or anything.

 

                        *                                  *                                  *

 

The next day, you’re sitting alone at lunch when Mackenzie plops herself down next to you. 

“I don’t _like_ him,” she says, without even saying hi or anything.  “I was just fooling around with him.  He’s always been a spoiled jerk, so. . .but I forgot, you’re not an islander, so how would you know that?  You actually liked him.  Like, for real?”

“Well, not any more,” you retort, suddenly, stupidly on the edge of tears.

“Yeah, seriously,” she agrees.  Then, hesitantly (which is weird, because she’s always so sure of herself), she adds, “I thought you knew what you were doing.”

“Not really,” you admit.  You don't know why you’re giving her this much when you have basically no reason to trust her, but apparently, you're doing it anyway.

“I’m sorry.”  She sounds like she actually means it.  She reaches over and pats you on the shoulder—awkwardly; you’ve never been the touchy-feely kind of friends.  “He’s really not worth it.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say with a shaky laugh.

“No, I mean. . .”  She grimaces, gives up on whatever she was trying to say, and shrugs.  “Thanks.”

You have no idea what to say to that.  This is more of a heart-to-heart than you’ve ever had.  Which, right there, means a lot.

“Hey, there you are!”  It’s Taylor, walking up to your table.  Your body tenses up at the sight of him.  You don’t know if you want to run away or punch him, but of course, you aren’t going to do either, you’re just going to sit here, frozen, while he talks to Mackenzie, acting like you don’t even exist.  “Come on, you’re not still mad, are you?”

Looking up at him with a supremely bored expression, Mackenzie says, “I’m not mad, I’m just tired of wasting my time with you.”

“Come on, seriously,” he coaxes impatiently.

“Seriously,” she echoes mockingly.  “I told you, we’re done.”

Taylor seems to get the message that she’s not kidding, and he doesn’t like it one bit. 

“You can’t just dump me for no reason!” he whines.  (Did he always sound like such a little kid when he was trying to get his way?)

“Okay, then this is me dumping you because your dick is too small," she says, loud enough for people at nearby tables to hear.

Behind you, someone laughs. 

Taylor flushes; his hands ball into fists at his sides.  Your heart pounds with the memory of him hammering on the door of the motel room, the real, ugly anger in his boyish voice, wondering what he'd do if he got the door open. . .

But it’s daylight, and you’re in public with a crowd of kids starting to look your way, and Taylor doesn’t move a finger.  He just stands there looking pissed and. . .and embarrassed.  Mackenzie keeps looking up at him like he's a TV rerun she's watching because she can't be bothered to get up and change the chanel.

“Is this about her?”  Taylor points at you—suddenly visible.  Your face does that sunburn-hot thing.  Everyone nearby is looking, now.  “Because whatever lies she’s been telling about me—”

“Actually, we have much more interesting things to do than talk about you.  Or with you,” Mackenzie drawls.  “So why don’t you get lost?”

Taylor splutters, apparently stumped for a comeback.

He’s not even that big.  He’s taller than you, sure, but he’s not that much taller than Mackenzie, and he’s skinny as a rail, and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t actually know how to fight.  You remember how little he looked in Duck’s hands, how Duck shoved him away like he was nothing.

He’s probably never had sex before, either.

“Okay, I get it,” he says, going for pure meanness now, like Irene, only without her cool; he’s so mad he’s stammering.  “You’d rather hang out with that—that cockteasing lesbo than with me, huh?  I guess she really does it for you.”

“Yeah, I like how she can talk about stuff besides sex and isn’t an immature jerk-off," says Mackenzie.  "But I can see how you might not get the appeal.”

“Fine, you two lesbos have fun together,” he sneers.  He says the word  _lesbo_ louder this time, like maybe he thinks nobody heard it the first time.  He’d sound more threatening if his voice didn’t break between octaves.

“And you have fun with your tiny dick,” she retorts, not missing a beat.

“Maybe one of these years you’ll figure out how to use it,” you add, shocking yourself by actually making the words come out of your mouth.

A couple of the kids watching the spectacle giggle at that.  Taylor spins around to glare at them, but that just makes the giggles spread.  He stomps off, spluttering.

You and Mackenzie look at each other and crack up, laughing like little kids.

  

5.

You’re seventeen, and honestly, on a gorgeous summer day like today, you’d rather be out helping Duck shingle the Brewers’ roof than stuck in Iggy’s trying to teach Mackenzie algebra (again).  But Mackenzie’s your friend, and she’s damn well getting into college if you have to haul her there by the skin of her teeth.  And even though _she’d_ rather be out behind the school building necking with Pete Leveau (ugh), she’s got her butt nailed to the seat and her eyes glued to the page, because it’s finally hit home that the only way she’s getting off the island is if she goes to college, and the only way she’s doing that is by getting her grades up.

“You’re so lucky,” says Mackenzie.  “With your brains, you’ve got a free ticket out of this hellhole.”

“It’s not a hellhole.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re a mainlander.”

“I am not!” you protest.  “My mom grew up here, just like your parents.”

“Sure, so she’s an islander, maybe.  Not you.  Hey, chill out, it’s not like being from Wilby is anything to be proud of.  I’m sure not going to brag about it when I get to the mainland.  And I’m not coming back here unless someone ties me up and drags me.”

“But it’s your home.”

“Not for very much longer, not if I pass chemistry.  I’m not going to be one of those losers who stays on Wilby their whole lives because they’re too lame to go anywhere else.”

“Some people want to live here,” you say.  “Some people choose it.”

“Yeah, right.”  She rolls her eyes.  “You think your mom came back her because she _likes_ Wilby?  Get real.  If she could have made it on the mainland, you guys would have stayed here.  No offense,” she adds, which just means it’s your job to not be offended, or at least to pretend you’re not.

You stand up, grabbing her coffee cup and your plate, to buy yourself a couple of seconds to decide whether to get mad or play nice.  That’s when you see your mom standing in the kitchen door.  As soon as your eye catches hers, she’s turning away to fiddle with the coffee machine.

You’d honestly like to slap Mackenzie, but that won’t actually fix anything, and she’s your friend, so you don’t.

“ _I_ like Wilby,” you say fiercely, glaring down at her.  She actually looks a little intimidated, before she tosses back her hair and picks up her pencil again.

“Fine,” she says, half-sulky, half-serious.  “Spend your life here, whatever.  No skin off my nose.”

“Fine,” you echo, idiotically.  But you don’t sit down, and after a couple of seconds, she takes the hint, gathers up her books and stuff, and walks out.  It’ll be fine, you tell yourself.  You’ll apologize tomorrow, or she will.  Or you’ll just get together and talk about chemistry and TV actors and pretend you didn’t have a fight.  Either way, it’ll be fine.  That’s how things work with the two of you.

“She didn’t mean it that way,” you tell your mother once Mackenzie’s gone, even though it’s basically a lie.  “She’s just always wanted to leave Wilby.” 

“Who wouldn’t?”  Mom smiles, but it’s one of those not-quite-all-there ones.

“I don’t think Wilby’s a dump.”

“Listen to me, Sweetheart," she says earnestly, taking your hand between both of hers.  “I am just so grateful that you’re smart enough to be able to have any kind of life you want.  And I don’t want you to worry about money, or about anything else.  We’ll make college happen.  You’ll get a scholarship, and if you don’t, we’ll figure something out, because there’s a big, beautiful world waiting for you out there, and I want it to be yours.”

“But what if I want to stay on Wilby and help run the restaurant?  Or be a carpenter?”

“Oh, Honey, you don’t want to do that,” she says, like it would be the end of the world.

“You don’t know what I want.  Maybe that is what I want.”

“Maybe that’s what you think you want right now.  But you don’t know what else is out there.  There’s a whole world waiting for you, all kinds of things you could do in all kinds of places.  Anything you want.  You have so many choices.  I’d hate to see you throw them all away without even looking.”

“But I’m not you, Mom.”

“Oh, I think that’s pretty obvious,” she says, joking but not really.  “You’re smarter than me, for starters.” 

“I mean, I didn’t grow up here.  I’ve seen other places.  I know what I’d be missing.”

“Oh, Baby,” your mother says, putting her arm around you.  “No one ever knows that.  Not until it’s too late.”

 

6.

You’re eighteen, and today you’re leaving home.  All your stuff is packed into the car, which your mom has driven down to the dock to wait for the noon ferry.  That leaves you on foot, and Wilby’s not big, but it’s not that small, either, when you only have three hours to cover it.

Iggy’s is closed, of course, since you and your mom aren’t there to open it, but you go there first, anyway.  The new coat of lavender paint you and Duck put on it still looks bright and cheerful; the winter storms haven’t had a chance to scrape away at it yet.  Same old stupid motto in the window, _Where the sweet meet to eat._ (Mom admits it’s dumb, but neither of you have ever managed to come up with a replacement that doesn’t suck just as badly).  You cup your hands around your face to peer in the window: coffee machine, lunch menu, doughnuts under glass.  You’ve probably spent almost as many hours in here as you have in school.

“I think they’re closed.”  Dan's voice behind you makes you jump.

“Ha, ha,” you say, rolling your eyes as you turn around.

Even now that he’s happier, Dan is probably the least smiley person you’ve ever met, so the little smirk he’s giving you is like a shit-eating grin from anybody else.  You pretend-punch him on the arm.  He makes finger-guns at his hips, slouching into his version of a gunslinger’s crouch, waiting for you to do the same, then you both ‘draw’ and ‘shoot.’

“Aw, no, guys, no blood on the paintjob,” grumbles Duck, grinning, as he walks up from parking his truck.

“Guess I’ll have to let you live this time,” Dan tells you.  He wraps one arm around Duck’s shoulder.

“So. . .this is the big day, huh?” Duck asks.

“Yeah.  College, wow,” you say, rolling your eyes to make a joke of the rote response.

“Let’s see,” says Dan, pretend-thoughtful.  “I think this is the point where we tell her to have a great time, keep your grades up, and not to drink or smoke or go to parties?” 

Duck shrugs.  “Got me, College Boy.”  He squeezes your shoulder.  “You’re going to be fine.”

“I know.”  Your smile feels kind of wobbly.  “And hey, um. . .you guys keep Mom from going all. . .empty-nest or whatever, okay?”

They both nod, taking you totally seriously, like they always do.

“Absolutely,” says Duck.  “Weekly poker night.  And hey, with you out of the way, we can totally raise the roof.”

“Yee-hah,” Dan intones, making the world’s gloomiest finger-twirl.

“Just make sure you keep your grades up, boys,” you tell them.  Duck snorts.

“Oh, hey, got you something,” he says.  Out of the pocket of his overalls, he fishes a Leatherman fold-up multi-tool.  “Now you got the not-quite-right tool for most jobs.”

“Thanks, Duck.”  You hug him, pressing your face into his shoulder.

When he lets you go, Dan hands you a video tape: _The Triplets of Belleville,_ which the two of you love and Duck and Mom hate.

“Find someone to watch it with,” he murmurs, stooping down so his face is not quite so far away from yours as you hug him, too.  “Someone who gets it.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

After the hugging, you all stand there awkwardly with your hands in your pockets, until you say, “Well, I’d better. . .”

“Need a lift?” Duck offers, but you shake your head, so they wish you a last _good luck_ and drive off.

You give the door a good-bye pat, then set off along the water, towards Main Street.  You wave at Dan’s video store as you pass; the sign still says Closed, and you can’t tell if he’s in there yet. 

You walk down Main Street, past the hardware store and the grocery and the Loyalist, then turn up Green, past the Russells’ house and the Stewarts’ and Mrs. Dean’s and the Lévesques sisters’.  Past the big yellow French house where Dan tried to kill himself; everyone still calls it “the French house,” even though the Bergs live there now, mainlanders from Ottowa with four little kids who you babysit. 

Here’s the church, which you’ve never seen the inside of, even though you cut through the graveyard every day on your way to school.  You do that now, climbing the grassy hill.  The school’s shut, of course; summer school’s over and the semester hasn’t started yet.  You wave goodbye to the ugly beige block where you’ve spent probably half of all your Wilby hours. The last of your way-too-many school buildings.

Your last stop is the Watch, to look at the waves crashing on the rocks.  It’s deserted, like usual.  You’ve always wondered about that.  The last undeveloped ‘beach’ on Wilby, and sure, it’s not much of a beach, just a pile of rocks, but you’d think it’d be overrun all summer, at least.  But for some reason, back in the mists of time, Wilby decided the Watch was ‘a lonely place,” and so, it is.  You don’t know whether anyone meets up here at night for. . .whatever, these days.  It’s not the kind of thing you can ask Duck, and honestly, it’s not your business.  But it’s funny that the high school kids haven’t taken it over for beers and making out and whatever else.  It’s like everyone thinks the place is haunted.  You actually like it this way.  It seems right that Wilby should have an official place for being lonely.

You pick up a rock, meaning to throw it into the ocean, but then you change your mind.  Instead, you stack it up with some other rocks to make a cairn.  You wonder how long it will stay there.  You wave goodbye to the waves and the rocks and the gulls, then head over the bridge and down the coast road to the wharf.

Deena and Irene are waiting with your mom at the ferry.  You’re not surprised to see Deena—she’s basically your mom’s best friend—but you’re not sure what Irene’s doing there.  Maybe she’s not sure, either, because she’s just standing with them, watching the two of them chatter, not saying anything herself as far as you can see.  She gives you a wave and a sort-of smile, which you return in kind.  You don’t have anything more to say to Irene now than you ever have.  But you’re kind of. . .not-unhappy that she’s there for your mom.

Deena gives you a care package wrapped in pink and purple paper with way too much glitter.  You’re kind of afraid to imagine what might be in it: probably something ridiculous and inappropriate, but it could be anything from lollipops and a stuffed animal, to a godawful tacky sweater, to _The Joy of Sex_ or a wall calendar with pictures of nude guys.  You can never tell, with Deena.

“Don’t get into too much trouble out there,” she murmurs in your ear as she pulls you into a hug.  “Just enough to give your mom a few grey hairs, all right?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” you tell her.

Mackenzie’s there to see you off, too; she isn’t leaving until next week.  You hug—awkward and self-conscious, with all the adults watching—and promise to exchange emails. 

“So. . .I guess I’ll see you at Christmas?” she asks.

“Count on it,” you tell her, which earns you an eye-roll but also a smile.

From the ferry rail, you watch the island shrink into a blue smudge on the horizon.

“When I left,” says your mother quietly, “I stood in the bow.  I wanted to see where I was headed.”  She snorts a soft little laugh.  “Not that I had any idea where that was, other than away from here.  But one thing I knew for sure: when I stepped off this boat, it was finally going to start.  My real life.”

“I’m not you, Mom,” you tell her.

“Oh, I know,” she says, and gathers your stick-straight, now-damp-and-salty hair off your face with both hands.  “You know. . .a perm might look nice on you, give you a little more—”

“Mom!” you protest, rolling your eyes.  (Even though you’ve been thinking about cutting it, curling it, _something_ to make you look less like a twelve-year-old.)

“I know, I know,” she says, smoothing the top of your head, stroking the length of your hair that she’s still holding.  And then, “You know, there are two kinds of islanders—”

“Actually, that’s not true,” you interrupt.  “There’s way more kinds than that.”

She raises her eyebrows.  “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Well. . .”  She tugs gently on your hair, then lets it go.  The wind instantly whips it around your face again.  “Well, maybe you’re right.”

 

When you get to your dorm room, your roommate’s already there, unpacking her stuff.  You can tell she’s a city girl from her clothes and makeup and the way she moves: quietly confident, like being here is no big deal.  She comes right over to greet you when you come in.  She looks straight at your face, not your clothes, which makes you want to like her.  The smile she gives you, welcoming and maybe just a little nervous underneath, makes you want to like her too.

“I’m Martine Denis,” she says, in a thick Québéquois accent.  “From Québéc,” meaning the city, presumably.  Whether that makes her an insider or an outsider here in Montréal, you’re not sure.

She holds out her hand and you shake, a little awkwardly because you’ve been doing the first-day-at-school-meet-new-kids thing all your life, but you’re a little out of practice and kids don’t shake hands with each other, that’s for adults.

“Emily Anderson,” you tell her.  “From Wilby.”

 


End file.
